I have just discovered the J. Peterman Catalogue.
I know. I know. I should realize that I have known about this since the 1980s, thanks to Seinfeld.
But here's the thing: while I knew that "Elaine Benis" worked for a guy who actually in real life had a catalogue full of luxury products described in impossibly purple prose, I never bothered to look at the catalogue. And then, the other day, one arrived in the mail.
And I fell in love with this dress
And this coat
And this skirt
And this blouse
I don't have such a life. And I don't need such clothes. But, oh, isn't it a lovely holiday fantasy that there is a party somewhere, for which an engraved invitation with my name on it is about to be mailed, and to which I will need to wear something magnificent? Something with the alluring swish of beaded fringe...